


Facing the Music

by carolej126



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolej126/pseuds/carolej126
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally published in Road Trip With My Brother 4 (Agent With Style, 2007)</p><p>Sam makes a decision that Dean isn't going to like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facing the Music

Sam had first become aware of it three days ago, right after a particularly messy gig. He'd given Dean a slightly reproachful look, and then disregarded it, concerned more with getting back to the dumpy motel they'd been staying in, focused more on treating the cuts and bruises both men had received. 

He'd noticed it again two days ago. They'd spent most of the day tracking a shapeshifter through the woods, always a step behind, as the creature morphed into one animal after another, some dangerous, some as gentle as a child's pet. Finally, after neatly dispatching it with a silver bullet through the heart, they'd headed back to the car. That's when he'd noticed it again. It hadn't been that bad, just enough to wrinkle his nose, and he'd meant to mention it to Dean when they got back to their room, but after the day they'd had, both men had simply flopped, exhausted, on their respective beds and fallen asleep.

Yesterday, he'd thought about it again, but only for a brief moment, as he had helped Dean into the back seat of the Impala and floored the gas, intent on getting his brother to the hospital. And, understandably, after several worry-filled hours spent in the emergency room, it had slipped his mind. 

Today, after making sure Dean was up to traveling, Sam had taken over the Impala's wheel, ferrying them for almost six hours to reach their next destination. Dean had spent most of the drive sleeping. And Sam, with not much else to think about, noticed it again. But now it was stronger. Sharper. More pungent. Probably ten times worse than it had been before. And impossible to forget about. So, while his brother was lost in sleep, Sam had made a decision: It was time to do something about it. 

Now it was nine o'clock in the evening, and even with Dean out on the town for the evening, enjoying a few beers and a little female companionship, Sam knew he didn't have much time. While Dean had pretended he was fine, just fine, it was pretty apparent that his brother would be returning to their room a lot earlier than what was normal, so Sam got right to work.

His first idea had been to wait until Dean fell asleep, sneak it out of the room, deal with the problem, and then return it before his brother had time to notice it was gone. But, after a quick internet search, that idea had been set aside. Web site after web site reiterated over and over, that trying to take care of it himself could be disastrous, for both it and Sam. It wasn't that his brother wouldn't have forgiven him. He would have. Eventually. But, he'd set that idea aside, and moved to the next one. Confronting Dean with the truth.

He quickly gathered the information he needed. A quick search of the dresser had provided him with a Gideon's Bible and a thin phone book. He set aside the Bible and opened the phone book to reach the business section. While most phone books contained yellow pages, plural, this one only had one yellow page. And listed one motel, one restaurant, one gas station, one church, one bar, one drugstore, one grocery store, one bank, and one laundromat slash dry cleaner slash notary public. He wasn't sure about the notary public part, and why that particular service would be provided with the other two, but the laundromat slash dry cleaner would meet his needs nicely.

There was another way to deal with it, of course, he had to admit. A third option. He could always wait until Dean noticed it himself, but that might take longer than he was willing to wait, especially considering the amount of time they spent in close quarters, either in the Impala or various motels and hotels. No, it was time to bite the bullet, to court danger, to go for broke, to play with fire, to take a chance, to face the music. Well, technically that last one wasn't correct. It was time to make Dean face the music. It was time for- 

Sam looked up, his thoughts interrupted mid-stream, as the door opened and Dean entered, wearing that insufferably smug expression he always wore upon returning from a close encounter of the feminine kind.

"Dude, your jacket reeks."

Sam recoiled. That wasn't what he'd meant to say. He hadn't even waited until Dean closed the door, settled into their room, boasted about his evening's conquests. He'd just blurted it out. And now Dean was staring at him, his eyes narrowed. 

"What?"

Okay, so that wasn't how he'd meant to go about it, but it was a little late to back track now, so Sam took a deep breath, looked Dean straight in the eye and repeated, "Your jacket reeks."

"There's nothing wrong with this jacket," Dean retorted defensively, smoothing the leather with one hand.

Diplomacy flew out the window. "It stinks, Dean," Sam retorted back. "Can't you smell it?"

Dean raised one arm to his nose, sniffing inquisitively. He shrugged. "Smells like leather."

As if leather was the only thing that jacket smelled like. "And..." Sam prompted.

"Sweat," Dean admitted. He threw a glare at his brother. "Dude, that's not my fault. It's not like I can stop sweating."

"And..."

Dean took another sniff. "Gas." 

"And..." He drew out the word expectantly, determined to keep at it until Dean conceded.

"Beer."

"And..."

Dean sighed. "Okay, you've made your point. But it's not that bad." 

"It's not that bad?" Sam repeated in disbelief. "Dean, that jacket is covered with stains." He pointed at each spot in turn. "Gunpowder, gasoline, rock salt, blood, mud, they're all on there. And that's not counting the innocuous stuff like coffee and beer and soda and food and water." He peered closely at another stain. "And I have no idea what that one is."

"Ghoul intestines," Dean offered, fingering the mark. He looked up at Sam hopefully. "Can't we just wash it?" He was obviously picturing slipping down to the motel's laundry room, popping in a few quarters and some detergent, and then, presto chango, an immaculate leather jacket.

Sam shook his head. "Nope. That jacket needs be cleaned professionally."

That much he knew for sure. It was true that the two brothers took care of their own laundry while on the road, and they'd both become pretty proficient at it, but a leather jacket was a lot different than their normal loads. And according to his internet search, it could do more harm than good. While Jess had tried to teach him some of the tricks of doing laundry properly, showing him how to separate clothes into "whites," "darks," "delicates," and more, both Sam and Dean usually put everything into one load, with "regular," "a little more," and "a lot more" amounts of detergent based on how dirty the clothes were. That wouldn't work with a leather jacket. Especially a leather jacket that Dean would want to wear again.

"I looked it up on the internet, Dean. We could ruin that jacket if we tried to wash it ourselves."

Dean cringed, his eyes wide with horror.

"I found a dry cleaner, just across the street. We'll drop the jacket off tomorrow morning, let them take care of it, and pick it up when it's done."

"I don't know, Sam."

Sam wasn't about to take no for an answer. The trick was getting Dean to agree with him. If he tried to play on Dean's sympathies, the other man would either tell him to "deal with it," or "find yourself another ride if you don't like it." But, when it came to women... Sam donned a serious expression. With any luck, Dean wouldn't see right through him. Although, come to think about it, it probably wouldn't be too long before the smell of that jacket did repel more than his brother. 

"Look, sooner or later, that jacket's gonna be scaring off the women. I mean, smelling like, uh, old spice or something, is one thing, but smelling like," Sam gestured toward the jacket, "that, is just gross." He put as much emphasis on "that" as he could muster.

Dean sighed. 

And Sam knew he had won.

*******

The bell above the door chimed softly as the two men entered Bob's Dry Cleaners and Laundry, Family owned and operated since 1983! according to a very prominent sign on the wall, and, based on the large plaque permanently affixed beside it, Winner of the Dry Cleaner Award in 2005. 

The middle-aged man at the front counter, Bob, if his pin back nametag could be believed, looked up with a wide smile. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

Instead of responding, Dean took a step backward, holding his jacket protectively against his chest, apparently not ready to entrust his coat with just anyone, even Bob, despite his award.

Sam rolled his eyes. He'd give his brother another minute, knowing how difficult this was for him, but no longer. 

"Sir?"

Time's up. 

"Uh, we want to get this jacket cleaned." Sam used his thumb to point in Dean's direction.

The clerk nodded, reaching out his hand to take the jacket. 

Dean eyed the clerk suspiciously, looking for all the world like a man who'd just been asked to hand over his first-born son for some sort of Satanic ritual. For a moment, Sam thought he was going to have to pry the jacket out of his brother's hands, but Dean finally released the coat. But not until after muttering, "Christo," and waiting to see if there was a marked reaction.

"Let's see." Bob held the jacket out in front of him. "My, my, my. We've got what looks to be mud, and blood, and..." The clerk continued on, zeroing in on each and every stain, and clearly keeping a running total of expenses in his head. "That will be eighty-nine dollars plus tax."

Sam shook his head at the price. He'd known it would be expensive, but that seemed a bit excessive, even for the amount of work needed to restore the jacket to its former pristine condition. He stifled a faint smile of amusement. If the dry cleaner really knew what all of those stains were, he'd probably refuse to touch it at all. 

"But the sign says forty dollars," Dean protested, pointing at said sign.

"Forty dollars and up," Bob reminded him, emphasizing the "up" and setting the jacket on the counter. "The price is based on the amount of cleaning required." He looked at Dean over his glasses. "This jacket is going to require extensive cleaning."

"But..." Dean clutched the jacket back to his chest. 

"Eighty-nine plus tax," he repeated.

With a dramatic sigh, Dean let his head sag forward. "Okay," he finally agreed, however reluctantly.

It wasn't the cost, Sam knew. One of their fake credit cards would be used to pay for it. It was the principle of the thing.

Bob nodded. "Let me fill out the paperwork, and you'll be all set." He set about filling in a pre-printed form, and when finished, slid it across the counter in front of Dean, adding a pen beside it.

"Let go of the jacket and sign the paper," Sam prompted. 

Wearing a "if anything happens to this jacket you are so dead' glare, Dean handed the jacket over. His eyes studied the work order, examining every word. Drop off date and time: today and 9 a.m. Item: leather jacket. Pick up date and time: today and after 5 p.m. Signature: fake, of course.

When Dean signed the form, Bob tore off the carbon copy. "Here you go, Mr. Darrow. You can pick up your jacket anytime after five p.m. tonight. If there's any problems, we'll let you know."

On his way to the front door, Dean came to a screeching halt. "Problems?" he questioned, his eyebrows raised. 

"There won't be any problems," Sam reassured him, placing one hand on his back and trying to move him, once again, toward the door. "Right?" he threw over his shoulder at the clerk.

Bob wasn't smart enough to keep his mouth closed. "Well, of course, we can't guarantee that the-"

"That's it," Dean snapped, cutting the man off mid sentence. "Give me my jacket back."

"Dean," Sam soothed. "It's just a cleaning, not major surgery. Your jacket will be fine." 

Dean looked back and forth between Sam and Bob, clearly weighing his options. "It had better be," he warned through clenched teeth, finally allowing Sam to steer him toward the exit. "Or I'm coming back packing." This last was added under his breath. 

*******

Sam sighed with relief as they entered Bob's Dry Cleaning and Laundry at exactly five p.m. on the dot. They'd spent the day researching their next gig, plotting their course, eating at the only restaurant in town, and cleaning their weapons. At least, Sam had. Dean had spent most of his time either checking his watch or staring in what could only be described as longing at the Dry Cleaners across the street from the hotel.

Bob was missing from the front counter, but they could hear noises coming from the back room. Sam was content to wait patiently for the man to return, but Dean, true to form, immediately began banging on the small bell, despite the sign that read 'please ring once for service.'

"Coming, coming," rang out from the rear of the building, and Bob entered at almost a run. He stared at the two men reproachfully, then glared pointedly at Dean's hand, still suspended above the bell. 

Sam cleared his throat, and when that didn't catch Dean's attention, he unobtrusively moved his brother's hand away from the bell before he could bang on it again. 

"Ah, yes, the leather jacket," Bob said in recognition. "Let's take care of your payment, and then I'll get it for you." He shuffled through a file box, then pulled out a receipt. "Let's see... With tax, that will be ninety-four dollars and twenty-six cents." He reached out his hand, apparently expecting Dean to hand over either a credit card or cash. When Dean didn't move, Bob dropped his hand. 

"Is there a problem, Mr. Darrow?"

"I want to see my jacket first." Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest. Immovable. His expression, however, indicated that, unless his jacket appeared in a timely manner, he'd be vaulting over the counter and retrieving it himself. 

"Well, I guess that would be all right," Bob agreed with a nervous smile. He headed into the back room, muttering something under his breath, but returned quickly enough, carrying Dean's plastic-wrapped jacket.

"Here you are, sir."

Bob didn't even have time to pass the jacket across the counter. Before he could move, Dean had taken two quick steps forward, practically ripping the jacket from his hands, and was intently examining his coat. 

"I'm sure you'll find everything to your satisfaction." 

It took a while, with Dean checking out every inch, but finally, he nodded his head and passed the jacket back to Sam. He took out his wallet, removed a credit card bearing the name of Henry Darrow, and handed it to Bob.

With Dean's attention elsewhere, Sam took a quick whiff of the jacket. He nodded with satisfaction. The noxious odors were gone, leaving behind the pure smell of leather. He knew it wouldn't stay that way for long, though, not with the kind of jobs they did. 

"You ready?" Dean asked, having completed the credit card transaction. He snagged the jacket out of Sam's hand, shrugging into it with a contented sigh.

"Yep." 

And he was. All was right with the world, and Dean's jacket. At least for now.

~end~


End file.
